Surf

the eyes have not adjusted
to the light we never were,
waves that break
the bones of us
receding from our tissue torn.
I walk the day,
while sunlight flatters
bottles full of memory,
buckets made of sand,
pregnant with the dawn’s becoming
nothing west of where we laid,
and no one left to pull the marrow,
no one left to bleed.

JM Gant

A New Jersey born poet, author, and editor. Arch Linux enthusiast, and self-confessed data-hoarder.